I'll Tell You Secrets Best Forgotten
by P.T. Tucker
Summary: Sherlock's relationship has been progressing nicely, and that's the good part. The memories that follow are the bad part. For the first time in years, Sherlock needs his big brother. [Warnings for rape aftermath & drug references]


**AN:** Some minor background Mary/John/Sherlock.

 **Warning:** While there is no "on screen" **rape/non-con** , this fic deals heavily with the subject & the emotional aftermath years later. Also has some references to drug use.

* * *

Mycroft was standing under a tree a few meters away: obviously attempting to hide from Mummy without making it known that he was doing exactly that. Sherlock caught snatches of Mandarin – something about trade over the pond – as his brother spoke into his mobile without so much as a glance behind him. Unwise for someone of his position to be so unconcerned with his surroundings, but perhaps that was the two years of spy work and assassination talking. Sherlock couldn't remember being troubled by such things before he'd gone on his "adventure", as John liked to think it.

Sherlock _could_ remember long days spent listening to his brother's voice as Mycroft read him books, and then, when Sherlock had been capable of reading them himself, explaining the deeper concepts contained therein. It enforced why he'd come out here in the first place. Mycroft had always found a way to condense the problems into something Sherlock could manage on his own. Failing that, when Sherlock still hadn't known what to do with the material he'd been presented with, Mycroft had given him _his_ interpretations and solutions.

He could use that right about now.

Mycroft's voice turned icy as he shifted into threatening the individual, albeit in a way that could never be pinpointed as directly threatening. Sherlock glanced back towards the house, and then towards the smattering of trees. Perhaps he should return at a better time; there were ways of avoiding them until he could speak with Mycroft.

"Sherlock?" His brother's voice caught him just as he'd turned to leave.

"Mycroft," Sherlock replied, facing him.

It occurred to him then how childish it was to come running to his big brother for help, and he jammed his hands into his coat pockets in an attempt to stop their fidgeting. It didn't work, and the motion only drew Mycroft's attention to them. Sherlock curled his fingers into fists and pressed them against his sides.

This had been a ridiculous idea.

Mycroft gave an absent-minded farewell before ending the call and slipping his mobile into his pocket, his eyes never straying from Sherlock as if he thought he might make a run for it if he glanced away for even one second. He wasn't wrong. A part of Sherlock did want to run. It was only the knowledge that, for once, Sherlock was completely out of his depth, with no idea what to do or how to solve his ignorance, which kept him there. For the first time in decades, he needed his _brother_ to tell him what he was supposed to do, and he would worry about the humiliation later.

"Do you have a cigarette?" Sherlock knew he didn't. He'd stolen them out of his jacket earlier when Mummy had pushed Mycroft into helping with the cooking. Pity Sherlock hadn't been able to see that spectacle, but the kitchen was more than large enough for the three of them, and it hadn't been worth the risk.

"No, I seem to have lost them." Mycroft's brows drew down as he studied him, and the concentration was almost enough to break Sherlock's resolve. It was simultaneously fortunate and unfortunate that the house wasn't empty and that the people therein could do nothing to help him.

"Would you like one?" Sherlock pulled out the pack he'd stolen.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but accepted it anyway when he held one out to him.

Sherlock plopped down onto the ground. "Sit with me?" He toyed with a blade of grass and didn't look at Mycroft.

His brother considered it for a moment – all the time Mycroft ever needed to consider anything – before shrugging off his suit jacket and dropping it beside Sherlock. He settled onto it and leaned over to allow Sherlock to light his cigarette. They smoked in silence for several minutes.

"Is there any particular reason we're out here and not inside where it's far more comfortable?" Mycroft asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

Sherlock's throat closed up as he attempted to respond. Now that he was here, doing this, finally, he couldn't force the words out of his mouth. After spending several weeks lying between John and Mary, wondering when the day would come when things would progress too far for his barely healed wounds, he couldn't allow himself to just blurt it out and be done with it.

"It's an unusually nice day, isn't it?" he said instead. "I thought we could do with the fresh air." He sent Mycroft an impish smile as he sucked in another puff of his cigarette.

"Mary's influence, I assume."

They both knew John had long since given up on trying to force Sherlock outside when there wasn't anything out there to encourage his leaving the flat. He didn't even get dressed every day.

Sherlock was grateful for the acceptance, though he held no illusions that Mycroft actually believed his excuse. This was difficult enough without explaining how he'd been hiding in his closet for the past hour in an attempt to avoid everyone while he'd worked up the courage to do something that had once come as easily as thinking. He couldn't afford an interruption when he told his big brother – not now – and Sherlock's room had the tendency to acquire unexpected visitors whenever John or Mary decided to come pull him away from whatever he was doing in favor of "family time." They wouldn't bother him if they thought he was out here smoking with Mycroft.

Which he was. Technically. Mummy was going to be furious.

So was Mycroft, by the time he was through.

It was a comforting thought.

"Did you know people are debating over the status of Pluto?" Sherlock asked, just for something to say.

"I'm not certain I would consider it a debate." Mycroft's tone was dry and Sherlock couldn't help but smile.

He laid back into the grass. Mycroft, with obvious reluctance, followed. Lying side-by-side, they were suddenly children all over again, casually enjoying each other's company as they explored the world through words.

They spoke of Sherlock's recent cases, Mycroft's faint praise far more validating than John's outbursts of amazement could ever be. They spoke of the cases Sherlock hadn't solved, and if Mycroft knew the solution, he kept it to himself. They spoke of Sherlock's interactions with the goldfish. Even Mycroft couldn't understand why they did the things they did, illogical creatures that they were.

They spoke of many things pertaining to Sherlock's life, Mycroft apparently content to listen and add his comments only after Sherlock had paused for them. Their first cigarettes had long since turned into their third and fourth by the time Sherlock had worked around to his relationship with John and Mary. Then they spoke of love…and lust. The words came tumbling out, as if the adhesive had been rubbed clean by Sherlock's continuous speech.

"I was raped," Sherlock said, his voice neither higher nor lower than it'd been throughout the rest of their conversation. He was proud of that.

He glanced to the side when Mycroft didn't respond.

Mycroft's eyes were closed as he inhaled and exhaled and inhaled and exhaled, repeating the process over and over as if he'd forgotten how to breathe without his "dirty habit" showing him the way. His jaw flexed whenever the cigarette was out of his mouth longer than was strictly necessary to expel the smoke from his lungs. As if he had to physically stop himself from doing something…well, from doing _something_.

Sherlock brought his own hand up to his lips, sucking in the sweet nicotine and then releasing all the rest into the air. His brother leaked rage like a cracked reactor leaked radiation. There existed the possibility that if someone so much as raised their voice to Sherlock in the next few hours, Mycroft would find them and make them beg for death…before denying it.

Fill a glacier with fire and it floods.

Something like love warmed Sherlock's insides. He fell back into the safety of it and the words continued.

"It was several years ago. I ran out of cocaine and the dealer I encountered decided he wanted more than my money." Sherlock let out a shaky breath. He could stop there. Mycroft wouldn't force him to relive it.

Wouldn't make him say how he'd already been in the throes of withdrawal at the time and couldn't have fought one man, let alone three. Wouldn't ask him to specify the order in which they'd taken him, one after the other after the other until they'd worked back around to the leader, who'd gone in for seconds. Wouldn't require him to detail how they'd left him lying there in the alleyway, an extra gram tucked into his pocket for providing "a good night's entertainment." Wouldn't need him to retell how he'd waited until they'd made their way onto another street before yanking up his trousers and running all the way back to the drug den he'd called home at the time, terrified that at any moment they would decide they weren't finished.

Wouldn't demand he acknowledge how disgusting he'd felt – like complete and utter _filth_ – for a very, very long time afterwards.

Sherlock jumped as something brushed against his hand, but he didn't look. Whatever emotion Mycroft wore at that moment, be it pity, heavenly wrath, or anything in between, he couldn't afford to look. Not while there were tears in his eyes.

"They took turns." His breath hitched. "They–" He couldn't continue.

"You don't need to tell me." Mycroft's voice was a shock after so much silence from him. Whatever fury bubbled under the surface didn't show in his tone, and he didn't press for the information he would need to sate his bloodlust. The calm acceptance made Sherlock feel oddly worse.

"I don't know their names," he admitted. It was a failure on his part. He should have investigated. Even if he'd been too frightened to ride a cab past the area for months, he should have asked one of his fellow junkies to look into it. He should have called _Mycroft_.

"I killed them."

Sherlock looked then, the tears threatening to spill over no longer such a threat. Mycroft had finished his cigarette and now his hand rested on his stomach, his fingers twiddling with the bud as he stared at the tree above them. Sherlock had the simultaneous urge to strangle and hug him. He settled for tossing his cigarette into the nearby grass and rolling over to press his face into Mycroft's chest.

"Forgive me." Mycroft's right arm wrestled its way from underneath Sherlock and fingers threaded through his curls. "When I discovered what had happened, years had already passed. You appeared to have dealt with the trauma, and I didn't want to upset you by mentioning it. In retrospect, I realize I should have said something so that you didn't have to broach the subject yourself."

"I would have been angry with your interference," Sherlock murmured, and maybe it was true. Either way, he could hardly revisit the past. No use dwelling on it.

"I assume the reason this is coming to light now is your increasingly physical relationship with John and Mary?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock nodded. "Have they done anything to upset you?"

He snorted. "No, though we are both aware that you'd be the last person notified if they answer was yes. You'd have them shot."

"I would," Mycroft agreed. The lack of remorse made Sherlock's lips twitch, which was probably a bit not good, but Sherlock couldn't be bothered to care right then.

"We haven't progressed passed kissing. They're worried they'll scare me away if they move too quickly."

"Will they?"

"I don't know."

That was why Sherlock had finally broken his silence, wasn't it?

"Do you want your physical relationship to progress?"

"Yes." That question as easy. John had aroused Sherlock for some time, as Mycroft had to know. Mary was a bonus.

"I believe they should be informed of your possible negative reactions, if nothing else. You don't need to give a reason, though I'll be surprised if they don't guess it within moments. Anxiety attacks are not something to be trifled with, brother dear."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He'd suspected that would be Mycroft's answer. The thought of having this conversation all over again, with _them_ , made his stomach clench.

"Perhaps seeing a therapist first–" Sherlock shook his head. "You could tell them you need more time–" Sherlock shook his head again. He'd already had _years_. He wanted to move forward, now, with their help, he just didn't–

"Do you want me to tell them?" Mycroft asked, his tone intentionally blank. No inflection on the words, and thus no right or wrong answer. It was a tactic Sherlock recognized well.

"Would you?"

"Is there a specific time you'd prefer?" Mycroft could always be counted upon to be efficient.

"Would you do it today?" And then protect Sherlock from their questions over the next few days as he adjusted to their knowledge of his secret. His skin felt raw and his insides exposed and Mycroft hadn't even moved yet.

"Of course."

They laid there for some time more, and it was fortunate that no one wanted to be involved in any extended conversation they might be having, because no one came looking for them. It would have been difficult to explain their current position on the grass, snuggled together as they were, or how the unfeeling Ice Man hadn't stopped petting his hair since he'd started.

"We should return," Mycroft said. He made no move to untangle himself from Sherlock.

His decision, then. He picked himself up and then helped pull Mycroft to his feet.

His brother frowned as he shook the grass from his suit jacket before draping it over his arm. "Shall we?"

They started walking.

Sherlock froze when they drew near to the house. Mary and John were outside sitting in the grass.

"Why don't you go inside, Sherlock?"

That was all his feet needed to unstick themselves, and Sherlock darted past the two of them without a word, ignoring their inquiries to where he'd been as he closed the door. He leaned against it. His heart felt as if he'd run the entirety of London. Outside, he could hear John ask what the hell his problem was.

Sherlock smiled ruefully. John was going to regret asking that.

"There you are!" Mummy said, coming into the room. "Where's your brother?"

He shrugged.

Mummy tsked. "You boys and your secrets. Come along."

Sherlock followed her back to the kitchen. He hadn't been lucky enough to escape cooking duty after all, it would seem.

* * *

Sherlock toyed with his mobile in between peeling potatoes and shooting looks through the kitchen window. Mummy didn't seem to mind his lack of concentration. The woman herself stood by the window and made no attempt to hide her interest as she watched Mycroft speak with Mary and John outside.

"Telling them just what will happen if they hurt my baby, no doubt," Mummy said. She glanced over her shoulder at Sherlock. "Good."

His lips twitched.

Father wandered away from his own Mummy-assigned task – cleaning the vegetables – to peer over her shoulder. "Shouldn't that be my job?"

"Oh dear," Mummy said, turning to face him. "Mycroft's much more frightening." She patted his cheek in apology.

Father appeared to think about it before nodding. "You're right. Our son is terrifying." He wandered back over to the sink, apparently content to allow Mycroft to terrorize his youngest son's lovers.

Sherlock stared at the three of them. Mycroft probably _was_ threatening John and Mary. His brother reacted to Sherlock's perceived vulnerabilities by filling them with his promises of death and dismemberment, not necessarily in that order.

John caught his gaze through the window, and Sherlock immediately turned his attention back to his potatoes. The definition of cowardice, he knew, but that was why he needed Mycroft to provide this barrier for him. Just until his stomach stopped feeling uneasy every time he considered what their new opinion of him might be now that they knew.

"Oh, they're coming back!" Mummy darted over to the cupboard and made a show of contemplating her options of spices.

Sherlock tensed when the door opened, but only Mycroft made his way into the kitchen. The window showed that neither John nor Mary were outside any longer. He shot a look towards his brother.

Mycroft's eyes pointed in the direction of the guest room before coming back to rest on Sherlock. He shook his head.

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed. Good. They would give him time.

He gently kicked Mycroft underneath the table: a silent thank you. Mycroft pretended not to notice, and Sherlock mentally thanked him for that too. Time for things to shift back into normalcy.

"I saw Mycroft smoking outside, Mummy," Sherlock said, because she was bound to find the cigarette buds eventually.

"Mycroft!"

His brother sighed.


End file.
